Throwback Thursday: Poetry’s Darkness and Light

The weird truth about me that may or may not be genetic: I cannot hear meter. I cannot hear stressed syllables. Neither can my dad. Inherited? I don’t know, but I do know that all I can write is blank verse (or is it free verse? I’m forever confusing the two.)

Here’s a stab I took at poetry in my late teens or early twenties:

Torn and weathered
Through the desert storms
’Til he was as rough and scaled
Like a carpenter’s hand.
But he was not as tough outside
As he was deep within.

‘Twas a moonless Friday,
A dull and dreary Friday,
When he buried her
In a deep, deep grave
And it was as dull without
As it was within.

Dust raked the desert,
Biting into his weary eyes;
The wolves howled
And the mountains cried.
But he was unmoved,
For he killed her on Friday

Somethin’ about money,
A baby, a house–
Too much to take as he
Loaded his Luger . . .
Too much without,
Not enough within.

Nice and cozy, no? …Not. That was a darker time for me, and my writing sure reflected that. But I wouldn’t want to send you off with dark feelings, so here’s a fun, fluffy limerick for the road:

Frickety, nickety pickle
Bread for just two nickels
It’s dry and sweet,
A tasty treat,
But going down it tickles!

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Author: bethovermyer

Beth Overmyer wears several hats, all belonging to different writers. From fantastical kidlit to everyday popular fiction, Beth pens her work with gusto. In 2008, her screenplay The Method won best comedy at Gotham Screen’s contest, and in 2012, her MG book In a Pickle came out from MuseItUp Publishing.

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